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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861534">Intersections of Grief and Guilt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemechanicalalligator/pseuds/onemechanicalalligator'>onemechanicalalligator</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Community (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Quarantine, Sick Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:15:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25861534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemechanicalalligator/pseuds/onemechanicalalligator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff gets some bad news and tries to process it. </p>
<p>Takes place in the present. Jeff and Abed have been together for five years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abed Nadir/Jeff Winger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been years since he’s seen her, and that’s embarrassing to admit. It’s not that he doesn’t love her, that’s not it at all, but he moved out when he turned 18 and never looked back, tried to distance himself from the sad empty house wallpapered with abandonment and trauma. It wasn’t her fault; it was never her fault. But he couldn’t separate her from it, either.</p>
<p>And it wasn’t a bad relationship. They didn’t fight, really, they just sort of drifted, and he called her on her birthday, but not when he needed help with anything, and she called him every holiday, but never asked him to come visit, and that was just how it went. She was his mother, and she always would be, but when she called him on a Thursday night and left a message to congratulate him on his five year anniversary with Abed, the anniversary of the relationship he had only just told her about a few weeks before, he planned to call her back.</p>
<p>He really did, but he was tired at that moment, and he hates talking on the phone in general, so he put it off, and said he would call her later, to thank her, to tell her more about how happy he was, because she would like that. Maybe someday he’d take a little road trip with Abed and go visit her, sometime after the pandemic is over, if it ever is. Because she’d probably like Abed. She likes most people.</p>
<p>But then he gets a text message in the middle of the night from his aunt saying his mom is in the hospital, that they don’t know what’s wrong but it’s not The Virus, and also, it’s not good, and his first thought is, <em> this doesn’t make sense, </em>because she’s so young. Only she’s not young at all, Jeff just pictures her the way she was when he was younger, when he kept in better touch, when he saw her frequently enough to etch a picture in his mind, and now it’s the only picture he has left. </p>
<p><em> Not young at all </em> and <em> in the hospital </em> aren’t a great combination, and it’s enough to freak him out, it’s enough that he slips out of bed and starts pacing, makes his way to the kitchen and pours himself a few fingers of scotch, and then sits down and lays his cheek on the cool finish of the countertop. That’s where he is when Abed finds him, still fuzzy with sleep, and Jeff doesn’t even notice he’s here until he drapes himself over Jeff, holding him close.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Abed asks quietly, and Jeff hands him his phone with the text message still on the screen, because he hasn’t stopped reading it over and over.</p>
<p>“I can’t…” Jeff croaks, and then closes his mouth and hides his face in his arms, and Abed doesn’t say anything, just rubs his back, and they stay like that until Jeff is ready to move, until he stands up and turns to face Abed, and Abed takes him in his arms, and Jeff buries his face in the curve where Abed’s shoulder meets his neck, and Abed thinks Jeff is going to cry, but he doesn’t.</p>
<p>Abed hums softly and starts rubbing Jeff’s back again, and he still doesn’t speak, and Jeff appreciates it. He doesn’t need to hear <em> it’s okay, </em>because it’s not okay. Right now he just needs silence and the feel of Abed’s hands on his back, grounding him, keeping him safe.</p>
<p>Eventually he lets Abed guide him back to bed, and once they’re under the covers Abed wraps his long limbs around Jeff like a safety net, runs his hands through Jeff’s hair, and they fall asleep again just like that.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Another text message comes, telling Jeff she’s getting worse, and Jeff shows it to Abed and then goes to bed, even though it’s the middle of the day.</p>
<hr/>
<p>The next message informs him that she’s elected to stop treatment and begin hospice care at home, and she probably has a couple days, maybe a week. She’s not coherent. There’s nothing Jeff can do from where he is. And he can’t go see her, not with the quarantine. So that’s just it then.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Abed is there when Jeff finally breaks. He hears a crash, and finds Jeff’s phone in the corner of the bedroom on the floor, and he’s grateful that it survived Jeff throwing it, because it’s better for him to read the actual message, better not to have to ask Jeff to tell him what’s going on. He doesn’t see Jeff right away, but finds him eventually on the floor between the bed and the wall, banging his head lightly against his knees. Abed drops down beside him and waits.</p>
<p>“I never called her back,” Jeff whispers. “She left us that message. For our anniversary. Who even does that? Who calls someone to wish them a happy anniversary? Especially their son who waited until he was <em> five years </em> into a relationship before telling her not only that he’s in a relationship, but that it’s with another man? And she just accepted it, and called to be nice, and <em> I never even fucking called her back to say thank you. </em> And that’s how our relationship ended.”</p>
<p>“Your relationship didn’t end, Jeff,” Abed says softly.</p>
<p>“She’s <em> dying, </em>Abed.”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t mean your relationship is over. She’s your mom forever. She’s your mom, and you love each other, and that doesn’t go away when one of you dies.”</p>
<p>“How do you<em> know, </em>though?”</p>
<p>“I just do. You just have to trust me on this one.”</p>
<p>Jeff rests his head on Abed’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything right away. Abed takes his hand and squeezes it, then begins to press and rub his fingers and knuckles in a way that he knows is comforting to both himself and Jeff. </p>
<p>“I did everything wrong,” Jeff says finally. “I wasn’t there. I avoided her. I kept things from her. I love her so much and she doesn’t know, and now she’ll never know.”</p>
<p>“She knows,” Abed says firmly. “I don’t even know her, and I know that. She wouldn’t bother with anniversaries, or even those postcards she used to send, if she didn’t know that you loved her.”</p>
<p>“I hate that I can’t be there,” Jeff says. “I hate that all these years I <em> could have fucking been there, </em> and I chose not to be, and now I need to and I can’t. <em> Fuck!” </em> He slams his fist on the wood floor and then cries out in pain, and Abed carefully takes Jeff’s fist off the floor and kisses it before placing it in his lap.</p>
<p>“It’s fucked up, and it sucks, and it’s not your fault,” Abed says. “You never could have known.”</p>
<p>“It’s not fair,” Jeff says softly.</p>
<p>“Nope,” Abed murmurs. “It’s really not.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Jeff says. “I feel like I’m supposed to <em> do </em> something, and I don’t know what it is. I feel stuck, Abed. And scared. And lost.”</p>
<p>“I know.” Abed puts his arms around Jeff and kisses his temple.</p>
<p>“I miss her already,” Jeff says, and finally starts to cry.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He thinks there was a time when it would have been considered rude to text someone the news that their mother has died, but apparently those times are over, because he wakes up to his phone vibrating, and it’s another message from his aunt. They haven’t spoken except through texts during this whole thing, and he thinks he likes it better this way. He likes having time to think about what he’s going to say. He likes not having to worry that he’s going to cry on the phone.</p><p>And to be fair, he’s only met his aunt maybe twice in his life. It would probably be weird to try to start up a relationship now. It strikes him that his mom was really the only person he still considered to be his <em> family, </em> at least in the way that family has things like memories and shared experiences. He technically has a dad, and a half brother, even, but he barely knows them. It isn’t the same.</p><p>He doesn’t want to wake Abed, so he takes his phone out to the living room and sits on the couch, and he reads the text six or seven times before he responds. His response is stupid, a generic <em> Thank you for letting me know, </em> and he hates himself for that, but not enough to say anything else. He figures when there’s more he needs to know, someone will tell him, but until then, he doesn’t have the energy.</p><p>He takes one of the throw pillows from the couch and hugs it to his chest, tries to do that thing where you apply pressure to a wound to make it stop bleeding, like he can apply pressure to his heart and maybe it’ll stop breaking. He doesn’t want to cry -- it’s a frantic, desperate feeling, the desire to keep it together, like nothing would be worse in this moment than to collapse into a sobbing mess. And he thinks that’s stupid, because losing your mom is probably the best reason to cry, it’s the one time when no one will judge you, but he <em> doesn’t want to do it. </em></p><p>He pulls up the last message his mom left on his voicemail and listens to it over and over. He has no idea how much time passes, but he’s still listening when Abed finally comes out to the living room and finds him.</p><p>It’s clear that Abed can tell from the look on Jeff’s face what has happened, but Jeff holds out the phone to show him the text anyway, and after Abed reads it he sits down next to Jeff, moves the pillow away, and takes him in his arms. He doesn’t say anything, and Jeff is glad. There’s nothing <em> to </em> say, really. Abed begins to rock him slowly back and forth, and he presses a soft kiss to Jeff’s temple, and Jeff <em> is not going to cry, he isn’t, he can’t. </em></p><p>It feels like they stay that way for hours, and Jeff doesn’t know if that’s right, he’s lost all track of time. There’s light coming in through the windows, but he honestly doesn’t remember if it was light out when he got up. He has melted completely into Abed, has turned him into a human shock absorber for his grief. He’s sure Abed can feel when he catches himself about to sob and pushes it back down. It keeps happening, and every time his whole body jolts. Abed doesn’t say anything.</p><p>When he gets tired of the silence, Jeff squeezes Abed and then pulls away just enough to be able to see his face. He can’t bear the thought of not touching him, and again, Abed seems to sense that. Jeff wonders vaguely if Abed can just read his mind now. He decides this isn’t the time to worry about it, since he’s benefitting from it. </p><p>“Hey,” he finally whispers, and he doesn’t like the way his voice sounds, strained and sad and broken.</p><p>“Hi,” Abed says quietly, and leans forward so his forehead and Jeff’s are pressed together. </p><p>“I can’t…” Jeff begins, but he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, so he closes his mouth.</p><p>“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Abed says. “There will be plenty of time.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Jeff says, and he does that thing again, that almost crying thing, only this time he can’t hold it back all the way, and he feels the tears in his eyes, heavy against his eyelashes. He doesn’t want to blink, because it will make them spill over, but he’s pretty sure that will happen anyway if he doesn’t. So he leans down and buries his face in Abed's shoulder, lets his t-shirt soak up the moisture. </p><p>“I love you,” Abed says, and Jeff shakes against him, still trying to hold back. Still trying to stay whole, to keep the shattered pieces of himself together so he doesn’t lose any.</p><p>He starts to remember things about his mom. But he doesn’t want to remember, he’s not ready for that, so he tries to distract himself, instead, only the rest of his mind is suddenly blank. He feels frozen, stuck between a million things and he can’t identify a single one of them. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Jeff says, and then remembers that Abed was just speaking to him. “I love you too,” he adds. “I don’t know. What to do. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t…”</p><p>“Shh,” Abed says, and rubs Jeff’s back. “You don’t have to know. I promise.”</p><p>“How can she just be gone?” Jeff whispers. “Just like that?”</p><p>Abed doesn’t say anything, just holds Jeff tight and makes soothing noises, and Jeff relaxes against him, and the next time his body tries to cry, he gives up fighting against it.</p><p>It’s a kind of crying that Jeff is unfamiliar with. The kind that consumes, overpowers, and crushes. The kind where he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think, like his body is flooding from the inside out. He clings desperately to Abed, keeps his face pressed into his shirt as he sobs and gasps, and he knows he’s making a mess of Abed’s shirt, knows by now it must be soaked in tears and snot, but he can’t do anything to stop it. He doesn’t even have the brainpower to feel disgusting.</p><p>It feels like it goes on forever, and it feels awful and scary and gross, but he’s also starting to feel a little bit lighter. He can’t breathe out of his nose, but his chest feels a little bit clearer. The break in his heart feels a little bit cleaner, like maybe it can be repaired someday. He knows he’s crying loudly, can hear himself, and if it were anyone but Abed with him, he’d probably be embarrassed, but he isn’t, he just goes with it. Honestly, he doesn’t really have a choice.</p><p>When he finally calms down, when it finally stops, he doesn’t let go of Abed, and Abed doesn’t let go of him. He wonders how long they’ve been sitting here, because it feels like forever and at the same time he feels like he <em> just </em> got that text message. Nothing makes any sense. His brain is foggy and confused. He doesn’t like this feeling.</p><p>“I think that helped a little,” Jeff admits after a while.</p><p>“I’m glad,” Abed says. “Do you want some tissues? Or do you want to just stay like this a little longer?”</p><p>“I can get tissues,” Jeff says. “You change your shirt. Sorry about that.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Abed says. “It’s totally, completely fine.”</p><p>“I’m going to take a nap, I think,” Jeff says. “I know it’s probably still early, but…”</p><p>“It’s past noon,” Abed says. “And you can definitely take a nap, any time you like. Do you want me to come with you, or do you need space?”</p><p>“Come with me,” Jeff says. “Please. I feel better when I can touch you. Is that weird?”</p><p>“Nope,” says Abed. “I’ll be right there.”</p><p>Jeff crawls into bed, wraps himself up in the blankets, and waits for Abed, who shows up soon after wearing one of Jeff’s t-shirts. It’s comically large on him, and it makes Jeff smile, and that feels good. Smiling feels good.</p><p>Then he remembers that his mother is dead, and he burrows under the covers, and then Abed is there, wrapping himself around Jeff, and Jeff clings to him like the lone raft in the middle of an endless lake.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is probably the end for real this time. </p><p>But honestly, who knows.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: This chapter contains several mentions of vomiting, so feel free to skip it if you need to.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three weeks pass, and Jeff is pretty sure he should be feeling better, but it’s hard when there’s no closure. He doesn’t particularly want to travel, to go to a funeral, to interact with the relatives and friends of his mother’s that he doesn’t know -- but he would have done it, for her. Thanks to the quarantine, there is no funeral, no gathering. There was no goodbye. It feels anticlimactic and unfair. It feels like his mom deserved better.</p>
<p>He thinks he’s keeping it together pretty well, for the most part. There <em> was </em> one time that he was going through his box of get well soon cards from elementary school, and he found a note from his mom in the box. It was one of the ones she used to tuck into his lunch bag, telling him to have a good day at school, and that was the day Abed came home to find Jeff systematically smashing all of their water glasses on the kitchen floor.</p>
<p>Jeff can’t stop thinking about Abed’s face when he walked in, the way he froze and then backed out of the kitchen, back to where he would be safe. And maybe he was a little scared of Jeff, and Jeff was scared of himself, too, because he wasn’t really thinking while he was doing it, could barely even see what he was doing because he was busy crying at the same time. When he calmed down, he swept up all the glass, and Abed went out and bought a new set of glasses at Walmart.</p>
<p>Jeff considered that a punishment in itself -- drinking out of glasses from <em> Walmart -- </em>and Abed said he understood Jeff’s need for a coping mechanism, but that they could get a nicer set of glasses once Jeff had proven he could handle not smashing these. And that actually seemed like a pretty reasonable compromise, given the fact that the glasses he’d smashed hadn’t exactly been cheap in the first place.</p>
<p>Abed has been so great throughout this whole thing, caring for Jeff while still holding him accountable -- the thing with the glasses, of course, but also reminding him that maybe he doesn’t need more than one drink before bed on a weeknight, and giving him back rubs and listening to him talk as much as he wants. And it usually isn’t even about his mom, he hasn’t been quite ready for that yet, but he’ll go on about sports or cars or lawyer things, and Abed listens to all of it, he still seems interested in everything Jeff has to say. And he’s so lucky to have Abed, he knows he is.</p>
<p>He gets home one day for lunch and he can’t find Abed right away, and he’s supposed to be home, they know each other’s schedules, and they keep each other up-to-date when their schedules change. He searches around until he finally finds the door to the guest bathroom closed, and they never use that bathroom. He knocks, and he hears some sounds, but Abed doesn’t answer, so he opens the door and steps in.</p>
<p>Abed sitting on the floor, hunched over the toilet, and Jeff can hear him being violently sick. Jeff immediately grabs a washcloth and soaks it in cold water, wrings it out, and lays it on the back of Abed’s neck. Then he drops to his knees and puts one hand on Abed’s back and waits for him to stop retching. </p>
<p>“You shouldn’t be in here,” Abed says weakly, wiping his mouth with a tissue and flushing the toilet. He doesn’t move.</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t I be in here?” Jeff asks. “And how long have you been in here? Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“I’m supposed to be taking care of <em> you, </em> not the other way around,” Abed explains. He stops speaking and takes a slow, deep breath. “I’ve been here since right after you left this morning. I’m not sure I understand what could possibly be left in my stomach or how I haven’t died yet, but this has been on and off for…”</p>
<p>“Four hours?!” Jeff exclaims. “Jesus. Okay. I’m going to call work and tell them I won’t be back today. Do you need me to get you anything? Ginger ale? Water? Medicine? Did you eat something weird? Are you <em> sick </em> sick?”</p>
<p>Abed waves his hand in the air, presumably to get Jeff to stop talking for a minute. He swallows a couple times and then sits back a little. Jeff can see that his eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale.</p>
<p>“I doubt I can keep anything down,” Abed croaks. “I can try some ginger ale, I guess.” He pauses. “I don’t think I ate anything weird. I haven’t eaten since dinner last night, and we ate the same thing. Also, I’m pretty sure I have a fever.”</p>
<p>Jeff places the back of his hand on Abed’s forehead and then yanks it away.</p>
<p>“You’re <em> burning up,” </em> he says. He grabs a second washcloth, soaks that one in cold water, and presses it against the spot where his hand was.</p>
<p>“God, that feels amazing,” Abed murmurs.</p>
<p>“Do you want to try to lay down?” Jeff asks. “I can bring you a bucket.”</p>
<p>“We don’t own a bucket,” Abed reminds him.</p>
<p>“I can bring you a mixing bowl. That’s what my--” Jeff stops abruptly.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“That’s what my, um, mom used to do. When I was sick as a kid. She used to give me a mixing bowl to throw up into.” </p>
<p>Jeff has been trying to focus on Abed, and he doesn’t love the memories that are now creeping up on him -- afternoons in his pajamas playing Monopoly with his mom while she would bring him saltines and ginger ale. She used to have to take off of work when he was sick, but she never complained about it. Never made him feel bad.</p>
<p>“Jeff,” Abed says, and the way he’s saying it makes Jeff think this isn’t the first time, that maybe he zoned out for a second there.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>“No, it’s okay,” Abed says. “But you don’t have to do this. I can take care of myself. I promise.”</p>
<p>“First of all, no, you can’t,” says Jeff. “You should have texted or called me. I could have come home to take care of you.”</p>
<p>“In my defense, my phone is in the other room and I can’t stand without getting dizzy,” Abed points out. “However, you’re probably right, because I doubt I would have bothered you even if I had it. Continue.”</p>
<p>“Second of all, I <em> want </em> to take care of you. I love you. I always take care of you when you get sick, and you take care of me. That doesn’t change just because I’m fucked up about my mom being dead.”</p>
<p>“You’re <em> grieving, </em> Jeff,” Abed says. “You don’t have to make it sound like a <em> character flaw--” </em> He stops mid-sentence to throw up again, and Jeff rubs his back. </p>
<p>“I think there’s some ginger ale in the fridge,” he says. “I’m going to grab that and the mixing bowl and help you to bed, okay?”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh,” Abed mutters.</p>
<p>Jeff gets everything settled by the bed, including some fresh wet washcloths, and some medicine for Abed’s fever, as soon as it seems like he might be able to keep it down, and their one mixing bowl, which they’ve never actually used for anything. Then he carries Abed to their bedroom and tucks him in.</p>
<p>“Do you want me to stay with you?” Jeff asks, running a hand through Abed’s hair.</p>
<p>“Please,” Abed says weakly. “Could you...read to me, or tell me a story, or something?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Jeff says. “Any preferences?”</p>
<p>Abed pauses for long enough that Jeff wonders if he’s fallen asleep. When he finally does speak, he reaches his hand out and takes a hold of Jeff’s. </p>
<p>“Tell me more about your mom,” he whispers.</p>
<p>Jeff doesn’t say anything for a long time.</p>
<p>“Only if you want to,” Abed adds. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--”</p>
<p>“No,” Jeff says. “No, I’m just deciding where to start.”</p>
<p>“Cool,” Abed mumbles. “Cool cool cool.”</p>
<p>“She...she was really beautiful,” Jeff says. “She had a nice smile. The kind that makes you feel loved. Like when she’s smiling at you, you’re the only thing that matters.”</p>
<p>“You have that smile,” Abed muses. “Not the one you give to everyone, but the one you give to me. Maybe it’s her smile.”</p>
<p>Abed opens his eyes, and Jeff is overwhelmed with love for him, like he’s overflowing with appreciation and tenderness and the need to keep him safe.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Abed says. “That one.”</p>
<p>Jeff didn’t even realize he was smiling.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I keep saying it's the end and then adding chapters.<br/>Writing this fic is my way of dealing with a personal loss.<br/>There might be more chapters to come. There might not.<br/>I have no idea.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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